Have you realized that it's been 11 years since I did my first "Chicken Trek" story? I didn't
myself until I saw the file date on the original... not that this is going to be anything like
the original. It might not even be a 'Chicken Trek' story. Suffer. <G>

If you need references, see my previous stories, and also check out UserFriendly
(www.userfriendly.org), the silliest computer comic around. Also various movies, TV shows,
books, and insane nightmares...

Rating? What rating? We don' need no steenkin' rating! We don' need no badgers neither.

As usual, this was written over the course of several weeks... usually whenever the literary muse
struck me, or a brief moment of perverse silliness. Most of it was written in cold sobriety,
believe it or not - while alcohol may be the grease of the imagination, it tends to lock up
other thought processes, which does not make for good (or easy) writing.
	Believe it or not (yet again), that filk was the most difficult part of the writing...
the rest was just letting my imagination go.

And as usual, this is composed of equal parts of silliness, perverseness, and social commentary.


	No Mogwai were harmed in the making of this production. Unfortunately.

- - - - - - - -

				      "Chicken Trek 2006"
					      or
				"Where Did I Put My Sausage?"
					      or
			"Being the Inquisitiveness of a Somnambulist"

	(A TALE OF TWO ELDER GODS IN LOVE AND HOW THEY ENTERED 'THE THROBBING',
	             AND SAVED THE LAST SOFT TACO IN EXISTANCE.)


So, anyway... in the year of the Great Trek Blackout (also know as, "What the fuck did Berman do
to the series??"), there appeared upon the horizon a strange and pulsating star, significant
of... what? It was surely a sign, but a sign of what? No one knew, and very few cared. All they
knew (or would have known if they had cared enough to know the latest knews) was that it was yet
Just Another Gnus Item which threatened to temporarily blank out the latest occurrences of the
latest war (excuse me, "political dispute", AKA "sectarian violence") which was tearing through
the Federation with the speed of an uncommon sloth strapped to an African swallow. There were
peaches in the orchards (and in several female pants, according to one horny witness - his
accounts, of course, were discounted when he tried to mount an Alpacan shepherd). There were
signs and portents, or at least poor tents for those unlucky enough to be caught out in the
rain. There was a distinct Freudian air about the usual political announcements, which in and
of itself was nothing unusual - Freud was probably elected by a wide majority, or by those who
*hoped* they were wide, or at least long.
	All of which, of course, means exactly /gornischt/ - life on The Station went on as
usual, with bodies pouring out the airlocks, and Newbari experiencing the shortest lifespan
known to peoplekind other than an actual coherent thought... if, of course, Newbari could
actually be considered 'people', which they usually weren't, and if thought actually existed,
which is debatable. And if there was actually any such thing as 'thought' in an era of
"Politically Correct" speaking... Big Brother Lives.
	Schools went on as usual, tourists came and went (sometimes at the same instant,
depending on what establishment they happened to be visiting), and the 'regulars' lived through
life as usual - one orgasm at a time. Businesses businessed. The janitors were once again on
strike, but this time there was hope: Major-Colonel Kira was handling the negotiations, which
meant that this time, there might actually be janitors alive to negotiate with, unlike the last
several times when Melissa B. had handled the arbitration.
	It probably isn't widely known that CThulhu and Hastur saved the Trek universe... but
then again, they probably didn't know themselves, so involved were they in their ongoing
corruption of the human (and other) race - their efforts doomed to disappointment, because the
inhabitants of The Station had figured out perversions that the Old Ones hadn't even considered.
In glorious TechniColor.
	In any case, life seemed to be operating as 'usual' aboard Terok Nor, with even the
Wormhole behaving in a semi-consistent manner. Money was made, bills were paid, and Newbari
continued to die at a rate not seen since the last time the Mokona had escaped the Cute Shoot.
(Is there really such thing as a "Pikachu Sandwich" available at Quark's? Or were they just
putting me on?)
	It was an ordinary day upon The Station, with facilities unbeknownst to Man (and Woman,
the real inheritors of the Universe) in perfect operation. The Ops crew did what they usually
did, staying out of the way of the OldTimers on The Station. Quark's was, as usual, in full
swing, various bodies either losing money or pledging it in troth to the various Dabo girls,
some of whom had recently gone into business for themselves at a Frederick's of Cardassia
franchise on The Station. Other bodies were just swinging - whether in time to a music that only
they could hear (and it's amazing what you can hear after a glass of Cardassian Canar... your
own blood, for one thing), or just swinging as they offended somebody or something.
	Ahem. So, anyway - the star did appear upon the horizon (define *that* one in a Trek
world!), and life did tend to become just a bit more raspberried and fertile.
	In Quark's it did start - two Bolian freighter captains realized at the same instant
that they had both just lost their ships in a game of 'One Up' (where one bet on whether a
Ferengi bartender would fall to the floor if tossed in the air), and would be responsible for
the consequences... in other words, brief sobriety. Several Dabo girls realized that it was a
shift change, but that wasn't a matter of mental acuity - cash and time cards had their own
malevolent force upon the universe. Several tourists finally realized... well, why bother to
continue? You get the idea... and in any case, tourists weren't among those to whom 'thought'
was an actual occurrence. "You know... morons", said Sheriff Black Bart to his sidekick, the
Whacked-Out Kid.
	In his office, Captain Sisko played with his ball (his baseball, obviously), and
wondered what the hell he had done to get him assigned to this particular Station, and why he
should really care... for the most part, it all ran smoothly, with little intervention from the
Ops crew. People lived and died (more the latter than the former, though they tended to reappear
in order to do it all over again), and all was serene. Once again Sisko thanked his lucky stars
that the Norians didn't do anything that was reportable by StarFleet means, and actually
managed to keep the Station up and running in a manner that could be called a reasonable
facsimile of normality (at which point a washing machine briefly popped into existence behind
Sisko, but he ignored it), or at least something along the lines of which wouldn't need to be
reported at his monthly SA (StarFleet Anonymous) meetings.
	The Bolians at Quark's, realizing that they were screwed (and not in a pleasant manner),
slowly slunk out the doors, hoping to avoid the creditors that they /knew/ were lurking in the
shadows - fortunately for them, the creditors were just as slobbered and sozzled as anyone
else, and hadn't yet realized that their pants were now the home of an incredibly prolific
weasel colony (non-nuclear), all at 6.57% interest.
	But getting back to the Old Ones... the tentacled and licentious beasts known as CThulhu
and Hastur (or alternately, "Roseanne's Bitch" and "Mr. Pudding"), had been examining their ways
of life and the chances that they would actually succeed at corrupting someone on a Station that
seemed to have invented the word 'corruption' (or possibly a more Freudian meaning), and had
come to the conclusion that they probably wouldn't - but what the heck, why not try? After all,
it was getting quite boring working for the RIAA...
	So what did the now-broke Bolians have to do with the not-quite-up-to-speed Old Ones?
Nothing at all, other than literary excess ("If we combine this yeast molecule with this hops
molecule, what might occur?"). They just happened to be the latest victims of inter-systemal
actuaries with a decidedly thoracic bent... in other words, heart-borne worries, which
differed from the midget doubles of a certain chili-eating Klingon, the Heart-Burn Worfies,
only in gaseousness. It did, however, differ from the time when the Queen Mum caught a cold
from her offspring, the result of an heir-borne virus.
	You wouldn't think that the Old Ones had a love life, or anything in particular relating
to the various organs of the humanoid symposium (apart from lunch)... but you'd be wrong. While
the lustfully driven thoughts and organisms of the Old Ones might not resemble the various
Eros-driven copulations of the various humanoid species, they did have one thing in common:
nothing.
	So it goes... various Old Ones (having missed their latest high school reunion) and
various Bolian-type entities clashing in space-time, often referred to as "what the hell just
happened here??"
	The 'regular' inhabitants of The Station went about their 'regular' business... The Bard
continued to tend bar, reciting obscene filks as fast as he could spew them out, while the
Magess continued to lurk around in dark corners, using Newbies (and others) as cannon fodder for
her latest spells while continuing to research the best way to change diapers without upsetting
the olfactory sensibilities of the Station ("And thus spaketh The Missy, and The Missy doth
speak. Sayeth the Missy... "Urrrrpp"). The Phoenix continued to nurse his battleships through
the various phases of rejection and acceptance, while several Texan bus drivers continued to
skid upon the greased Newbari of life. Drunken entities merged and shifted, while non-drunken
types tested out their new whips, and some tried to keep up with the strains of rock n' roll
issuing forth from the speakers. Vedeks of a sort did appear, waving in vain their PG-13 signs,
and wondering how in the hell they had managed to be yet again sucked into the perversities of
a universe that bore all the hallmarks of an incontinent Tyrannosaurus. Friends new and old
were Morned or remembered ("20 quatloos on the Rodney creature!" yelleth The Anna), depending
on solidity, and androids did yet again manage to avoid the questions of ethics. Voles and
firelizards and palukoo (oh my!) roamed the floors of the Promenade, perverting what would
have been otherwise a very perverse environment.
	Well... however it happened, it happened. And kept on happening, at $29.95 an hour
(batteries not included). And kept on happening... no Viagra needed.

	Hmmm... let's reset and start from the beginning.
	CThulhu was an Elder God of the Lovecraftian tradition, a tentacled horror that most
peoples in the universe would rather avoid unless absolutely necessary - necessity being defined
as "Oh, shit - my taxes are overdue!". Whatever the method and means that brought him to Terok
Nor is unknown, but here he had found a Home... here on This Strange Station he had found
beings even more devious, cunning and bloodthirsty than he himself was; at one point he had
commented that these Norians knew more about screwing people than did the vaunted executives at
Enron. In fact, quite a few of the inhabitants of The Station were so much more powerful (and
cacklingly evil twinned) than CThulhu that his powers and abilities quite often meant less than
the pull string on a discarded tampon, putting him at the beck and call of the Norians, which
occasionally resulted in practical jokes which could only be called distasteful by those with
an atrophied sense of the insane. CThulhu did come in handy upon occasion, such as the time when
dire dripping nausea - brought forth by the ingestation of a flattened mime - accidentally
defeated Yet Another Dominion Attack (YADA, YATI, YADA...) when CThulhu voided in the void,
woofing in the Wormhole.
	While he didn't have any real friendships (or apprenticeships) on The Station, CThulhu
did feel a sense of gratitude towards some, especially the Wolfly one who had gotten Ol'
Tentacle Head those nude holographs of Roseanne. That the Wolf had felt a need to get himself
ListKilled shortly afterwards in an attempt to rid himself of the clinging particles of fecund
Roseanne-ness only shows the depths that some will go to in an attempt to... er, we did that
already, didn't we. The attempt at cleansing wasn't entirely successful - while the Wolfly one
was indeed cleansed (in body if not in mind), it meant that every once in a while the RDIS would
spew forth naked miniatures of the Roseanne critter, which gave the inhabitants something other
than Worf's underwear to take aim at. Not that CThulhu was in any position to protest the
destruction of the duplicates of his enamored... in fact, the only positions he was in were
deemed too nauseating even by Quark, and had not been included in the midnight holosuite
showings. On the other hand's other hand, no one on The Station wanted to claim ownership of
CThulhu, as that would mean that they would be responsible for his bar bill... Ol' Tentacle Head
might not drink much, but he did have a tendency to sit at the bar for hours eating Peanuts (and
you thought it was a tree which gave Charlie Brown those kite problems).
	In any case, the inhabitants of The Station had gotten used to seeing CThulhu
squishily shambling through the corridors and down the Promenade, sometimes dragging his
inflatable Roseanne doll behind him, at other times having to bumble, stumble and fumble his way
into the medical area because one of his tentacles had once again gotten stuck in the heated
latex. They were not used to seeing Hastur wander around, but then, neither was Hastur
accustomed to having people ask him if he had enjoyed eating Tasha Yar. Becoming quite tired
of having to make a living doing pudding commercials on Earth, and having gotten tired of being
used as a RIAA-baiting ashtray by a certain Canadian internet company, Hastur had decided to
take his ol' buddy up on an invitation to visit The Station and enjoy some true Norian
hospitality.

	Now, hospitality and its environment differs as to whom you may be speaking to... but
variations of Norian hospitality (including those which used Vaseline) were just what the slimy
and gooey Hastur was looking for. He wanted to party! One of the problems with a being that is
basically ooze is that any drinks will, as such, run right through him... admittedly, they also
do that to humans and others, but in Hastur's case there was no intermediary trip through the
kidneys and bladder. So what is a semi-liquid Elder God to do when he wants to get a wee bit
drunk? What else but to ingest and otherwise enfold various drunken tourists and Newbari.
	Most people - or the inhabitants of The Station, whichever comes first - couldn't give a
royal (or plebian) rat's ass about what happens to the Newbari... most beings would say, "The
more gruesome and disgusting, the better!". But the Ops crew and the various merchants of the
Promenade wouldn't say the same thing about tourists - while they didn't leave that much money
behind, and while they didn't really bring any form of prosperity to The Station, there was a
bit of a need to keep them alive long enough to recruit new suckers, er, victims - well, they
needed to spread the word about the jolliness and hospitality conveniences of The Station. Which
they couldn't do if Hastur was eating them. Several Norians, upon realizing this truism, stood
up and cried "Eat me!"... whether they meant it, or whether they were suffering from Blutarsky
Syndrome, nobody knows.
	After several security personnel failed to return from a chat with Hastur (he spit their
phasers out once he realized that Bajoran blasters had no relationship to the Pan-Galactic
Gargle Blaster), the obvious method was tried: ask one of the OldTimers. The brewpub Klingon
contingent was consulted first, but that all came to naught when an out-of-control Welcome Wagon
smashed through three bulkheads to the accompaniment of an "Oops..." from the wreckage (it seems
that a 44D Victoria's Secret bra had been used in place of a drive belt, courtesy of a certain
Klingon who will Quo remain Quo nameless). Next they consulted the resident Vedek, but left
hurriedly when he began having an argument with a large flying PG-13 sign that was trying to
improve its rating. Third time's the charm, they say, so next the Ops crew consulted with the
Nightwolf creature, who was busy trying to build a replica Runabout out of crumpled beer cans.
His suggestion, involving a Heineken bottle, three orchids and a Yanni CD, was deemed
improbable and just a little bit disgusting (Bashir discovered how painful it was when he
tried it out himself... thankfully his genetically engineered heritage meant that spare parts
were available from Delphi), but then, by the Young Mr. Grace of Whomever Was Watching, a lusty
lesbian vampire (fuzzy handcuffs not included) had a brilliant idea: throw Hastur into the List
TubO'Jello.
	It seemed to be a lovely idea, and everyone thought that no one would notice the
difference anyway, considering some of the things that had gone into (and gone on in) The
Jello.. thus was mixed in a little tequila (just under 15 hectoliters), some Klingon blood
wine (made with real Klingon blood), some Romulan ale, and - for whatever reason - a small
butterscotch candy were tossed into The Jello, followed closely by Hastur. Just as quickly,
Hastur was thrown back out... Lola, Sebastian, and several piranha (newly returned from
Bermuda, complete with tans) had their own version of paradise going by the hot tub light, and
didn't feel any great need to indulge the promiscuities of a gooey god. His Ooziness started to
retaliate, but decided to quit when the pseudopod he was flailing at the Tub denizens with
came back out and started attacking him... there is power, and there is Power - and the
fantastical beings living in the List TubO'Jello had POWER. Even better (or worse, depending on
whose friend you might happen to be), Lola the Mermaid had Grrrrrl Power - something designed to
give most men a pause, or at the least make them reach for an editing pencil and a dictionary.
	So Hastur decided that while he was nowhere near a legal status, a cease and desist
order on his part would be the better part of valor - besides, if he discorporated, he wouldn't
be able to party. Finally a viable alternative was settled upon... a holosuite containing a very
miniaturized replica - ie, finite - of the Tub, loaded with liquor. Hastur dove right in -
discovering quite rapidly that while the List TubO'Jello doesn't have a discernible bottom, the
holosuite replicant certainly did - and not long after that CThulhu joined him.

	So what does all of this have to do with a newly discovered pulsating star, throbbing
and tumescent, beating rampantly, lively with moist orgasmic potential, just waiting to
invaginate the universe, erotically sparking a - what?? No, no! Not the cold shower!
Arrrrrrggggghhhhh!
	So anyway - what does the combination of drunkenly deficient Bolians, a pulsating,
throbbing -- okay, okay! - a newly discovered star and a pair of partying Old Gods have to do
with saving the universe? Everything and nothing at all, of course. The disconsolate duo, those
basic blue Bolians, began a varied and weaving trail down the Promenade, opening every door and
entering every room in an attempt to discover something other than stone cold sobriety, while at
the same time trying to avoid any possibility of payment to the purveyors of pulsating... er,
starships. Some things they discovered (already known to the regular inhabitants of The Station,
but hidden to those beyond the pale), while others they didn't... they, along with most anyone
else - that is, anyone who had managed to survive their first week on Terok Nor - had heard
about the Room of the NeverEnding Party, but in all of their searching they never found but a
clue to the whereabouts of said eternal joviality; unfortunately for the Bolians, the Party
tended to move around The Station, and was slightly psychic in quality, as it was unable to be
found by those merely desperate enough.
	They stumbled into Keiko O'Brien's schoolroom, but were quickly chased out by Keiko
herself, wielding her Dread Ruler of Obedience. They bypassed the medical area (and a Doctor in
the process of reconstituting, minus the orchids), and they gave short shrift to the Bajoran
Temple. In one formerly unused storeroom, they discovered a replica of the bridge of the Coffee-
Seeking Ship, the Won't-Stop-for-Directions-Voyager, where the slightly-balding Holodoc was
directing a musical inquisition into the status of the various sub-vessels of the beleaguered
starship (Bun of Steel not included).

	(ttto "Chatanooga Choo-Choo" by Glenn Miller)
Pardon me Tom
was that the Voyager's last shuttle?
Seven of Nine
said you lose them all the time.
Can we afford
to lose the Voyager's last shuttle?
We're lost out here
won't be home for several years.

We left the Alpha Quadrant with a load of thirty or more
the shuttle bay seems to have a revolving door.
Lose one in a quasar
another in a wormhole
And we still haven't found our coffee supreme.

The piloting responsible is worse than bad
and a training course just cannot be had.
Blown up in a system war
left behind the bathroom door
Uh-oh, Voyager lost again.

If we ever find
the place we left behind,
We might lose our pay
to refill the shuttle bay,
We'll never know
until the final days of our show.
So Voyager's last shuttle
will we ever get home?
Voyager's last shuttle
will we ever get home?

	Leaving the semi-poetical chicanery behind them, our favorite blue meanies - er, Bolians
- continued to weave their trail down and around the Promenade, searching for a cure to lost
starships and brief sobriety. They did indeed discover the political debate going on in Room
#357, but thankfully for them they realized soon enough what the chamber of horrors represented,
and managed to leave before their brains were also sucked dry by the insipid Field of
Lifelessness. The inhabitants of said room did, of course, continue to suckle upon the Barrel of
Pork, without discovering that they themselves were the result of Pork Suckling.
	In Yet Another Holosuite Drama, Little Nell did indeed realize that she was pregnant
with Dudley Doright's horse's pony... which had, of course, occurred (count the number of times
that word has been used in this missive, would you?) during one of the regular appearances of
the Northern Lights, when she discovered that while Dudley himself was not well-endowed - and,
in fact, was so strait-laced that he didn't even know what to do with it - his horse was hung.

	In The Meantime...

	The throbbing - okay, once is enough (unless you are Jacqueline Susanne) - star upon the
distant horizon continued to pulse in ungainly ways, forsaging a change upon, well, upon the
horizon.
	At about this time, yet another Bajoran prophecy came true when a certain OldTimer
inhabitant of The Station realized that he had once again forgotten to lock his panties in a
cabinet before leaving the holosuites. The Bajoran that had prophesied this did indeed poke out
his own eyes with a red-hot branding iron when he realized what it actually meant. Which was no
problem, as the ghost of Kai Winn needed sustenance.
	The wandering duo - the Bolians, of course - wended and weaved and wandered down the
Promenade in Big Blue Funk (is any other kind available to Bolians? Or is that the prerequisite
of IBM?), wondering Just What The Hell They Were Going To Do if they couldn't pay off their
creditors for the lost starships.
	They did stop for a brief instant at the HoloDeck Theatre, but quickly left when they
discovered from the small print on the posters that "Mary Does Melbourne" and "Tori Does
TerokNor" were both produced by the executive team of CThulhu and Hastur for "Pledge Your Soul"
Productions. They may have been drunk, but they weren't /that/ drunk... but they did file away
the information for later perusal. Another thing that made them decide to skip the show was a
young man sitting all by himself in the audience yelling, "Boobies! Want boobies!"... even the
Bolians had heard about The Nate.
	Also at this time, in a far away distant place, yet Another Hotel Heiress discovered
that she had once again sent her... interesting... photos to more than just friends and family.
What else is new? Not her partner, obviously... said personality (without actually being a
person) had managed to diet herself to extreme nothingness, causing not a blip upon the horizon
when she disappeared.
	At last, with all of their roaming, the Bolians stumbled upon the perfect solution to
their troubles - they in some way or another managed to gain access to that one particular
holosuite where the afore-mentioned CThulhu and Hastur were busy indulging in a bit of Hot Tub
insanity... before either Old One could react, the Bolians had dived deep and had drained half
of the (understandably finite) holosuite Hot Tub of it's alcoholic contents.
	Not an easy thing to do... several Norians had tried with other replicated Hot Tubs at
various times in the past, but desperation lent new wings to the flight of "God-don't-let-me-be-
sober-enough-to-realize-what-I've-just-done" attitudes of the Bolians. In other words, they
sucked down part of Hastur while they were trying to drown their sorrows.
	A disgusting thought at best... and what resulted from this inequity is best described
by not describing it - suffice to say that for only the seventy-eighth time in The Station's
history, the All-Knowing Ultimate Distress Alarm was triggered.

	It caused all sorts of strange reactions around the Station. For the most part, the main
thought that originally occurred to the OldTimers was "Todd's back??", while the Ops crew
quarantined themselves in their quarters and wondered if their jobs would still be available on
Monday.
	But all was not lost. A combination of various items occurred, least of which was the
knowledge - in the minds of the Bolians, once they were informed of what they had done - that
they would have to pay for the mess. Tourists and Newbies - the latter in very short supply,
thankfully - barricaded themselves in their quarters or any available hotel room (at quadruple
the rates, of course). One thing that did occur was the fact that The Latest War was relegated
to the back pages for at least five seconds - miracles do happen, it seems.
	The Bolians were in a quandary, at the very least. Deep shit is actually what they were
in. CThulhu, finally realizing what they had done, tried his best to apply the Heimlich
Maneuver to the unfortunate blue wanderers. The results... well, TechniColor is the least of the
descriptions. The throbbing, pulsating star upon the horizon - which had done nothing more to
the universe other than trying to exist - had by this point realized that it was definitely in
the wrong universe, tried to get itself unborn... something which only happens every several
years in Hollywood. Was it a result of the Old One's indefatigable attempt at non-sobriety? Was
it the Bolian's maddened meandering? Only the Owl will ever know.
	The ripple in reality caused a space-time fluctuation in the, er, space-time
fluctuation, resulting in normalcy exerting itself upon The Station for a period of no longer
than .00000000572 nanoseconds. Imagine a septic system belonging to whatever political
organization you wish to imagine (or not imagine) running backwards for that miniscule amount
of time...
	When said ripple had ended, things were back to, well, 'normal' aboard The Station.
Games of chance were played, various beings were reconstituted (unlike the orange juice
available at the Replimat), and RDIS raised its prices by another 2 bars of gold-pressed
latinum. There were, of course, unfortunate consequences of The Ripple... in Quark's, the dabo
girls for a tiny moment were clothed in the manner of Victorian England - thankfully it lasted
no longer than the lifespan of an incoherent thought. For just that brief moment, synthale
became real ale, while the opposite took place. Several personages raised their heads out of
their drug-induced hazes, then went happily back to sheer oblivion when they understood that it
didn't affect the primaries. Norians blinked, and said, "Not again..."
	Out in the far reaches of space, the new star - desperately trying to find itself a new
home - had looked out upon Ye Works Mighty, and had decided (if decision can be said to take
place in a network of non-cold fusion) that this wasn't the place for them, and Why God Did We
Have To Happen Here? At that instant, the not-quite-born star reverted upon itself, becoming a
flyspeck in the uncertainty of the quantum universe, aborting its birth in a spectacularly
insignificant manner, searching through the multi-cosmos until it found a small gap in the
Babylon 5 universe, where it was presumed as a god in the firmament.
	So in the end, what exactly did happen?
	Not all that much, as far as the Terok Nor universe was concerned. There was a
microsecond of existential uncertainty, but that goes on all the time anyway. The Bolians were
sobered (and terribly squeezed by CThulhu's medical malpractices). The Elder Gods - which did
include a now-back-in-one-gooey-piece Hastur were reunited with their holographic Tub O'Liquor.
The Norians, perhaps, sneezed, but otherwise were completely unaware of the transpired events.
The Ops Crew... ah, the Ops Crew. Whatever universal flicker had occurred, it didn't affect them
too badly; they got a miniscule pay raise, and the uniforms became just a mite bit less itchier.
	In the end, nothing really happened - but what else would you expect in an imaginary
universe, where reality wasn't even allowed in the door?
	All's well that ends well, of course... the universe was saved, the star was unborn, the
Elder (vacationing) Gods were eminently satisfied, and the once-drunken-now-very-sobered Bolians
discovered that whilst they had lost their ships betting in a game of One Up, they had lost them
to each other.
	What happened to the waiting creditors is best left to the imagination.

	The Soft Taco? It never existed. Such is life.


I would mention by name all of those Norians (past and present) who are inadvertently mentioned
in this trivial tale, but what the hell... you already know who you are. I will say that Rodney
"Quatloos!" Foremski (RIP) and Anna "The Anna" are mentioned, as well as Todd "Blood
Everywhere" Sullivan, Joost "Pronounce That!" Bruining, Melissa "I'm Not Responsible" Bateman,
Mary "MaryRaptor" Draganis, Nate "Wanna Wanna Wanna Boobies!" Bredfeldt and Judy "CuddlyBits"
McCoy. Anyone else is the result of your fervid imagination. Scooter isn't mentioned, but
something might have been swirlied.
	No, really.

(It's really pitiful when you can't remember names...)

===============================================================================================
(c) 2006 David "Nightwolf" Masters
david_masters AT comcast DOT net
http://home.comcast.net/~david_masters